


Post-fall, More then one thing has changed.

by michellewednesdayaddams



Series: Post-Fall [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls, Reichenbach Feels, Slash, fandom: sherlock holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 18:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michellewednesdayaddams/pseuds/michellewednesdayaddams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More than one thing had changed after the fall. Though the war no longer plagues John, more than the fair share of pain eats away at them both. Sherlock's suddenly beginning to feel himself come undone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [michellewednesdayaddams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/michellewednesdayaddams/gifts).



An image flickered in front of his mind like lightning that had struck. The shock coarsed through his body and jolted him awake, yet again. His brown locks, now wet with sweat, hung on his face. There was no case, but he yearned for one more then ever though his body was exhausted from lack of sleep lately. This was the 3rd night in a row where he was awoken by nightmares, and it's been so long since he's had one. They're never the same, each night they happen. There's lots of darkness and faces he cannot see, mixed with blood and pain. But Sherlock wasn't scared of pain, or blood, he might have craved it. These dreams were different. He was scared of who was in the dream, though he couldn't see it. 

He sat up defeated in bed with his head in his hands. He wanted to curse in frustration from his body being so betrayingly tired. Without hesitation he moved from the bed in one swift movement and went to the kitchen. He stood in the stark empty silence and sighed. John was asleep, and he wanted tea. He really wanted tea. Looking up at the stairs he considered for a moment to go and wake him to make him some, he even contemplated going to Mrs. Hudson for it, but he didn't. He sat in the blinding silence of the siting room instead, holding his head in his hands. His hair falling in front of his face and over his hands, he's been letting it get longer recently. 

So many things were different now, so many things have changed. He wanted nothing more than for things to revert back to the way everything was before, before everything he made happen. His eyes slowly moved up, looking across the room that was once filled with life and light, his own expression full of weary pain as the pink and dark rims surrounded his eyes. He took a deepened breath, trying to dull the pain from sleep itself. Even when he closed his eyes he could feel it, days and days wort of the heavy burden falling on him. His body was betryaing him. In sudden frustration his leg jolted and kicked at the small table in the middle of the room, flipping it, and he threw himself back against the chair. His arms crossed julienne across his chest with an expression on his face that almost wore tears. 

There was a sound across the flat, descending from a far. His head turned as he moved a hand across his face, his eyes almost wide from regret. "John," his voice was more tired then he thought as the words escaped his lips.  
The steps are heavy and slumped as if tired or still in a sleep-like state as he groans towards him "Yes, Sherlock, I'm coming." as if he knew. This was John, Sherlock thought to himself, he always knew. Somehow. He moves past the kitchen to the sitting room and stands in the doorway first, observing the scene as he rubs his eyes with his fingers. "Sherlock..." he begins as if it was a question alone. "Why are you awake?" he looks over to the table and doesn't ask, not directly at least. His voice was low and soothing, not as demanding angry as Sherlock had imagined. His guilt slowly fading.  
Sherlock sits there, in the silence and doesn't answer, he doesn't even look him in the eyes. He knows what's in there. It's the same tired and sorrow look that never left even when he did, even when he came back. It kills him slowly inside but he would never tell him that.  
"Sherlock...." he sighs again, seeing his expressionless face, but the doctor knows. Even in the dimly lit room he could see the pink rims around his eyes. He glances once again at the table then moves over carefully to seat himself on the couch besides him. His eyes never leave him, looking over every inch of him. "Sherlock, you need to talk to me. I know something's wrong."  
Sherlock's lip quivers, though he still doesn't look at him. His fingers tremble in his palm as he tightly hold them. 

"I know," begins carefully "About the nightmares...I know." Sherlock's eyes dart over to John's violently as he spoke. "A few nights ago, when you were sleeping I heard you, you sounded like you were in pain. You were, shaking and whimpering. I was...in the kitchen cause I couldn't sleep also." He looked away for a moment then back to him "I was only there for a moment, I didn't want to wake you cause it was the first bout of sleep you had in nights." he looks down almost shamefully. He sighs and looks at the table again, his hand moves to Sherlock's clenched fist and he let his palm rest over it. He hold it trying to gain his attention. "Sherlock..." his voice is soft "Sherlock look at me," his other hand moves to Sherlock's jaw and moves his chin to face him. 

And Sherlock lets him, he almost always let him. He hasn't been the same and John knows it cause neither has he. It's more evident now, in the dim light of the room, the way the angle of the light hits the soft flesh of his face. The face that John holds in his hand.

"I have them too, I had them almost every night since." he pauses, the words sound like poison to his tongue. "They're almost never about the war now, I should be thankful at least." he releases his face and looks down, retreating his hands to himself. "Sherlock...I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere." His eyes move up to his face and he almost grabs his hand again, it hesitates but he doesn't. He wants to though, he wants to hold him against his chest and tell him everything is going to be alright, because it has to be. After everything that has happened to them, it absolutely has to be. 

He stands instead, turning away from him. "John..." it was only the second word he's said so far. "Don't," the word hangs from his mouth as if waiting "...please."

John's eyes close slowly, those words were almost like daggers in his chest. "Tea, Sherlock?" he tilts his head towards him as he sees in the corner of his eyes a glimmer of light come to his face in the darkness among the pinkness of his eyes. He gives a small smile and makes his way to get the kettle going, not minding that this was the first night since Sherlock's been home he had been able to sleep straight.


	2. Post-fall: Perspective faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The post fall story from John's point of view, about all that he went through and how he came to the realization that being at 221b Baker Street with Sherlock was the only place he wanted to really be, ever.

"It was hell," his nimble and aging fingers typed across the keyboard. His bright eyes intently reading across his lit laptop screen as he began his blog page again for the first time in literally months. It was good to have something to write about again. Everything wasn't boring. "In every sense of the word, and I'll never forget any moment of it..." he paused and let his fingers ghost above the keys as he thought of what to type next.

He let his hands fall, his eyes moved up to the wall past him to the same familiar Victorian wall paper. He smirked at it. He'd never been so content to be in once place ever in his life. Not since after the war. He found himself in the same place, as if nothing had changed at all. After the first few weeks he went back to the single flats, leaving Baker Street behind. A few more after that and he found himself clutching the terribly familiar metal of his cane when his limp slowly returned. He realized it was because of what he lost, he lost his crutch. He lost what helped him stand up before. The one thing that kept him walking, the thing that gave him a reason to get up in the mornings at all. Every time his eyes closed he saw the deathful decent, he even contemplated leaving London. It was days before he was even able to walk past that same street again. 

Sometimes when he slept, in the Baker Street flat, he'd wake up in the stark silent coldness of it and sigh. His mind would wander, destroyed by the sorrow and lack of sleep. He wasn't even haunted by the war nightmares anymore. No. There were much worse things now. Like getting up to the kitchen in the middle of the night and turning around to ask if he wanted tea because he knew he wouldn't be asleep at that time. Maybe it was coming home in the middle of the day, and looking at the imprint of the solemn seat, and the ancient Stradivarius sitting besides it with a layer of dust. It might have even been waking up in the night out of reflex at the same time and shouting "Must you do that now Sh-," but there was nothing. Then the silent sob would fall, dry and dark at first, almost sadistically. The stone cold reality would come crashing down in waves like a broken damn.   
He couldn't stay there, not after that. It was like walking through a grave yard every day, being reminded of what he's lost. Being reminding that he lost everything, or rather what made his life worth anything anymore. 

Seeing him again, the image flashed through his mind and a small smile played on the corner of his lip. He'd never admit to the bitter tears that fell from his eyes. He punched him, he still remembers not 10 seconds after his mind registered what had actually happened and the tears beginning to fall his arm swung up as if being attacked and struck him across his jaw. Without a word Sherlock shot him a hidden and broken smile, it was enough to let John know what he meant to say and no one else. No one else would understand, not like they did to each other. It was the first time he had ever hugged him.

His fingers trembled above the keyboard again, completely lost in thought by now. It was only natural they returned to Baker Street. John didn't even hesitate to ask when they'd be going back. Sherlock pretended to be confused for his sake, forcing him to think about what he was asking him to do. John's only response was "Sherlock, I will sock you again." There were no more questions after that. Mrs. Hudson, of course, was the only person who could remotely tolerate Sherlock, and Sherlock wouldn't trust anyone else. That's what brought them back, some people would say fate. Sherlock would laugh at them and call them morons. 

He wasn't ready for what happened. Honestly he expected they'd come back and everything would be just like it was when Sherlock left. It wasn't. The nightmares were back, but the cane was gone again, not at first though. He wasn't the only one though. John woke up countless nights in a string to find horrible noises like being tortured unconsciously coming from his room. He looked in once, but only once, as he tried to wake him. He found him curled together trembling with his body coated with a layer of sweat. It took everything he had not to take him in his arms and rock him till he woke. But he didn't. Nothing was the same, and now he knew it. The stone cold reality washed in his face. 

It took a while but everything was almost alright again. John came home from the clinic and put on the kettle. He woke up in the middle of the night to loud swarms of the violin stringing through the air. His phone buzzed with menial messages to "remember to get milk on your way home -SH" and "The taxi driver is at risk for a massive coronary, am I allowed to tell him Or is it one of those things considered impolite to talk about? -SH" they made him smile again. It's been months since he'd smile.

And there he sat, in the stark silence of the flat sitting room with the brightness of his screen blaring at him and his trembling fingers hovering over the keys. He smirked and closed it, setting it aside he stood and shouted to the man wearing the large safety goggles over a wet petri dish "Chinese?" to which the thoughtless reply was "Korean." He smiled again, for the second time, it felt like the light had returned to the earth after the darkness that swallowed it whole and killed every peace that had ever been. There was never a place he was so sure he belonged, then 221b Baker Street, London, official quarters of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and his assistant colleague Dr. John Watson.


End file.
